Ever since college, Rosemary had felt competitive with Jane. She wasn’t sure why that was, although she suspected it had something to do with the similarities in their personalities. People talked about competition between friends as something shameful, but what greater compliment is there to someone you love than to want to rise to her level of accomplishment—and then leave her in the dust as you climb past her?
Pretty soon she was going to have to hoist herself up from this mountain of pillows and get ready for the party. Out of respect for Jane and Desmond, she’d make an effort with her clothes. It was a cloudy spring night with the promise of showers. There was a faint whiff of floral sweetness in the air, even in Manhattan. She’d wear heels and maybe a black dress she’d bought the other day. It was much too short for someone over forty, but that was part of its appeal. She didn’t dance, eat, speak, or write gracefully, so why should she attempt to age gracefully? Her goal was to get more offensively outrageous with each passing year.
When she got to the party, she’d plant herself in a poorly lit spot in the room, and applaud Jane and Desmond heartily. They deserved it. They’d raised the dead. Poor Charlie. She’d tried to raise him from the dead, but all she’d done was raise a few hundred grand. And now, the final indignity: after six and a half years, his death barely stung her at all. There were days when she had only the most fleeting thoughts of him, and other days when she actually believed it might be nice to have the love and companionship of another human being. Fortunately, there weren’t many of those latter days. She was happy with the cat and the occasional bottle of Chianti.
She closed her eyes and settled back on the pillows. If she fell asleep and woke up at dawn, having missed the champagne and small talk, she wouldn’t exactly drown in regret. Given her current problems with sleep, that didn’t seem likely. It was time to face the music, time to dig out her party clothes and her public persona.
2.
Rosemary took one last glance around the room, set her empty glass on a windowsill, and began to slither through the crowd as unobtrusively as she could. It was nearly midnight, long past her bedtime, and the party was just beginning to get its second wind. She’d been holding up her corner of the overdecorated living room for two hours, and now, at last, it was time to go home.
She’d guessed right about this party from start to finish: the toasts for Jane and Desmond, the applause, the delicate finger food, the delicate waiters. It was all very merry and fitting, but she’d lost her taste for cheerful celebrations like this—unless they were organized to celebrate her accomplishments. And unless she figured out a follow-up to Dead Husband, that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. There were too many couples drifting around the apartment for any real fun: the married academics, bored senseless with each other but inseparable; the hosts, cooing and clingy, but obviously trawling the party for an amuse-bouche or two to spend the night with them; all those inscrutable pairs of well-scrubbed men who might be anything from lovers to fraternal twins. Desmond and his garrulous little lover had barely parted company once all evening, a dead giveaway that neither one trusted the other. And then there was Jane and Thomas, down from Boston and both flushed with Jane’s newfound semisuccess. The two of them seemed to have discovered a fresh level of compatibility in recent years, something Rosemary had envied, right up to an hour ago when Jane had introduced her to a dark, handsome co-producer. “Andrew,” she’d said, and then let her hand linger on his arm in a proprietary way, as if she wanted Rosemary to know—or assume—there was more to their relationship than business. Lock up your sons and lovers, ladies, a happily married wife and mother was on the loose.
Couples were so smug, so self-satisfied, even when unfaithful and miserable. The worst of it was when people approached her in tandem, trying to make polite conversation, silently saying: Too bad the ark is a couples-only resort and you singles are going to be left here to drown.
She found the bedroom where the coats had been stashed and pulled her sweater from the middle of the pile on the bed. As she was putting it on, she heard a giggle come from the bathroom. She peered in and saw Jane’s son and the equally unappealing friend he’d dragged down from Boston—a girl named Schenectady or Newburgh or something—going through the medicine cabinet. Gerald would be eight now and was even larger than the last time she’d seen him, and he was wearing a red corduroy jumpsuit with a zipper up the front. Poor Jane.
“What are you children doing in there?” she asked.
Both turned, the girl frightened and embarrassed. Gerald was holding a box of condoms. In that terrifying adult voice of his, he said, “Plattsburgh has a headache and I was trying to find her an aspirin.”
“Likely story,” Rosemary said. She took the condoms from Gerald and put the box on the top shelf of the medicine chest. There were several bottles of prescription pills in there, but all of them were safely out of even Gerald’s reach. As she was closing the cabinet, she noticed one on the bottom shelf. She read the label as she moved it to higher ground: Valium. It had been years since she’d felt the sweet leveling of Valium. Everyone was taking Xanax these days, a more sophisticated but less satisfying drug. There were only about three pills left in the bottle. She casually slipped it into the pocket of her sweater.
“I saw that!” Gerald said.
She sighed and turned to him. “Yes? And what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m going to tell.”
“Please do,” she said.
But as she was leaving the bathroom, she thought better of her actions. She went back, opened the medicine chest and handed Gerald the box of condoms. “Just don’t say anything until I’ve left the building.”
One feature of the party she hadn’t guessed at was that the hosts would have the nerve to use Pauline Anderton for background music. Throughout the night, her voice had been braying in the distance, as appropriate for atmosphere as a construction worker with a jackhammer. When she stepped out of the bedroom, she heard a surprisingly calm and subtle version of “The Man I Love” oozing out of the speakers in the next room. Guitar and piano and maybe a cello somewhere behind them. Someday he’ll come aloooong. Tears started to well up behind Rosemary’s eyes. That raspy, awful, honest voice was touching a raw nerve. She absolutely would not cry in public.
She made it to the entryway of the apartment in one piece, but Anderton was barely through the first verse, and the thing was getting more emotional every second. She buttoned her sweater and grabbed the doorknob.
“Leaving so soon?”
It was one of the hosts, the willowy one with the pretty skin and the cheekbones, the one who’d obviously had some work done around his eyes. Velan, Vegan—something along those lines.
“I’m afraid so,” she said. “Tomorrow’s a school day.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday, darling.”
“I teach Sunday school. Darling.” But no, she wasn’t going to leave on a bitter note. “I had a wonderful time. Thank Paul for me.”
“Peter.”
“Him too.”
He opened the door for her and leaned in the doorway, watching as she walked down the hall. “May I tell you something?”
She stopped. “What is it?”
“You have got gorgeous legs.”
If she turned around and looked right at him, she really was going to burst into tears. “Thank you,” she said.
It was raining, one of those soft, spring rains that wash down the streets and refresh the trees and flowers, and make you think, for a few minutes anyway, the whole planet is a wondrous, self-sustaining garden. Rosemary loved rain like this, unless, of course, she was trying to hail a cab. She stood in the gutter with her arm out as taxi after taxi sped past her. Her hair was wet and her sweater and dress were clinging to her back. Self-pity was sneaking up on her, getting ready to grab her by the throat. She couldn’t get Pauline Anderton’s voice out of her head—Someday someday someday someday. She didn’t understand how a rocky and raw and unruly
sound like that could spark in her so much strong, uninvited longing.
Some creep on the street let out a piercing whistle and—of course—a cab appeared from nowhere, drove right past her, and stopped halfway down the block. She ought to run down there and start a fight. When she looked closer, she saw it was Melanie, that little dyke business partner of Russell’s who’d paid so much attention to her at the party. Can I get you another drink? Would you like to try one of these hors d’oeuvres? I’ll bet your students are all in love with you. Was that guy bothering you? Well, if she had the balls to whistle like that, she’d earned the cab. Except she wasn’t getting in; she was holding the door open and beckoning Rosemary.
“Come on,” she called out.
What chivalry! Rosemary brushed the rain off her hair, straightened out her dress, and walked down the street. Slowly. She had gorgeous legs.
“Thank you,” she told Melanie. “You’re a real gentleman.”
Judging from the grin, she’d taken it as a compliment. “I try my best,” she said.
Rosemary got in and Melanie shut the door behind her. She leaned her head into the open window. “Have a good trip, Rosemary Boyle.”
Rosemary was surprised by her own disappointment. “I assumed we’d be sharing,” she said.
“I’m going downtown.”
“What a shame.” Still I’m sure to meet him one day . . . maybe . . .“Why don’t you come along for the ride? My treat.”
“You mean it?” Melanie asked, already opening the door.
Rosemary gave her address and the driver pulled out into the speeding traffic, windshield wipers flapping. Through the rain-washed windows, the street was a blur of pretty, garish lights, and the city looked like a carnival. Melanie took off her jacket, some leather, military thing, and draped it over Rosemary’s shoulders. Maybe inviting Melanie along had been a bad idea—if only she’d left before that goddamned song had come on. But the jacket was warm, and Melanie, who couldn’t seem to stop grinning, had insanely beautiful teeth. And after all, if you didn’t take a few chances in life, you’d never discover anything new about yourself, you’d never have a fresh source of inspiration, and you’d end up dragging around your dead husband for eternity.
The driver was a genius at navigating the lights, and in no time at all they were gliding up Broadway, a mere few minutes from her building. Now or never, Rosemary thought. If the whole thing was a complete bust, she could take a Valium. She reached out and touched the gold stud in Melanie’s earlobe. “What do you say we stop and pick up a bottle of cheap Chianti?” she asked. “You’re not allergic to cats, are you?”
Acknowledgments
My thanks to the Ragdale Foundation, the Writers’ Room of Boston, the Dorset Colony House, and Chuck Adams.
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True Enough Page 37